


we only make tsunamis

by dis0rderly



Series: the most powerful magic [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dis0rderly/pseuds/dis0rderly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gives her one last slow spin as the song comes to an end. Quietly she admits, “sometimes I like to think that the only reason why we’re not together is because the world isn’t enough for a love like ours.”</p><p> <i>And don’t we deserve more than just enough?</i></p><p> </p><p>`one shot</p>
            </blockquote>





	we only make tsunamis

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if it's a little shitty, writing canon makes me depressed. enjoy!

**i.**  

All stories start with a meeting.

When Harry turns eleven, his whole world changes. Bright flashes and fuzzy yellow lights from his dreams become what Hagrid calls magic. He’s enthralled by it, feeling the buzz of his heartbeat moving through his body, pumping in his ears. He is captivated by people who are just like him but so different in their own way. Mostly, he is surprised that people know who he is, shaking his hand and staring at his scar. 

Ron’s hair is so bright red it’s almost blinding. He has been around magic his entire life and Harry feels a twinge of jealousy for a life he never knew. And yet, there is so much to know, so much to learn from the boy sitting across of him eating through a Pumpkin Pasty. They become fast friends and Harry learns that it is easy to belong once he has found the right place. And it seems that the train to Hogwarts is a good place to start feeling at home.

Hermione is excited about magic in a different way. Her hair comes into view before her face, a curtain of curls surrounding an inquisitive face. She has the kind of look that surprises him when she doesn't actually have a pair of reading glasses hidden in her robes. She's smart and talented and Harry thinks that there must be a lot to learn from her as well. He is only starting to get used to being well-known, but it takes him aback when there is a different sort of curiosity aimed at him. It seems that maybe there is something she would like to learn about him, too.

Even as she disappears down the train, Harry doesn't forget the spark of his excitement mirrored in her eyes. He never does forget her.

.

.

"Thank you, Harry." They are alone in the library, left with only one week before the start of the winter holidays. It is probably the first time they have been alone together, usually a trio since the troll incident. Harry looks up from his book, confused and curious as he processes what she has just said. Hermione clears her throat, "I know it was you who thought of seeking me out on Halloween. I've never been able to thank you for accepting me."

"It was really nothing, Hermione," Harry waves dismissively. He knows what she's trying to say. Harry has had no qualms with Hermione's knack for speaking out of turn. He understands that with so much knowledge in her head, she must need an outlet. As of late, it has become himself and Ron. "Anyone would have eventually remembered that you weren't there and come for you."

Hermione looks at him thoughtfully and shakes her head slightly before returning to her own book. Harry looks at her for a moment longer until her eyes move up to catch sight of him quickly returning his own gaze to the text. Hermione smiles slightly, pushing a lock of curly hair back. Then she reaches out to place her hand on top of his quickly before retreating to her seat. It has almost fallen silent again when she finally says, “but you were the first to ever think of me."

.

.

It’s disconcerting to know that not even Hermione has thought to write to him. For weeks, Harry has taken to seeking out his name through the Muggle post in desperate attempt to find out if any letters have been lost. When Dobby finally hands him a stack, he breathes for the first time at seeing Ron’s messy scratches and the familiar _Hermione Jean Granger_ in perfect script. He must return to Hogwarts, if only to see his friends.

.

.

**ii.**

“How could you ever think we’d forget you, mate?” Ron asks before shovelling a mountain of eggs into his mouth.

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione laughs into her morning tea. The Daily Prophet is waiting to be opened beside her but she ignores it to stare into Harry’s green eyes. “Do you really think that we wouldn’t write to you? And maybe Ronald would forget—” She gets a sound of protests from the boy but continues. “—but I even sent you a letter through regular post, all the way from France! We worried about you until you were staying with the Weasleys, and I stayed worried until I saw you at Diagon Alley. You must be barmy to think that your friends wouldn’t remember to write you.” At this, Ron makes a sound of agreement.

“Well I know that it sounds stupid now! That’s why I hadn’t mentioned it when I saw you guys,” Harry mumbles into his toast. Although Ron doesn’t seem to notice, Hermione can see how the insecurity of being neglected for an entire summer lingers. With a sigh, she gives his hand a comforting pat, smiling when Harry looks up.

“You’re The-Boy-Who-Lived,” Hermione’s eyes have a softness to them and her hand stops to rest over his, heavy and real. She spoons porridge into her mouth, chews and swallows as she lets Harry process. Her last words are whispered, meant for his ears only. “You will never be forgotten, Harry, much less by me.”

.

.

The Chamber for Secrets becomes an obsession, even more so when Hermione is petrified. He notices the parchment in her hand simply because he cannot stop looking at her, an almost glazed expression on his face. Her fingers are cold as he reaches out for the crumpled slip, but there is hope in what he reads. Harry does not stop obsessing until Ginny is crying in his arms and the last of the smoke from the diary has gone. 

Hermione runs into his arms first. It’s almost fluid the way her body winds into his. Twelve years old and muscle memory has already begun to memorise the shape of his frame, even just for a quick, grateful grip. He may have saved Ginny Weasley’s life but the feeling doesn’t compare to knowing that his best friend is living, breathing, feeling against him. Harry hugs her a little tighter at the memory of her statuesque form, alive but not. He shivers a little at the idea that one of his best friends could ever leave his life.

They must both notice the comfort between them, made clear when Hermione pulls away from Harry's hug and abruptly stiffens when Ron moves in. Ron and Hermione settle for a handshake and there is a flicker in the back of everyone's mind that Harry and Hermione are much, much closer. Harry can’t help feeling a little satisfied by this.

.

.

**iii.**

“Harry,” Hermione starts, softly. He feels a slight nervousness at the way she says it. He notices now that she has specifically put her books away to face him. "We've never really talked about your childhood."

He flinches, eyes frozen on the rug. Five long seconds pass before Harry looks at Hermione. He manages to pull a wry smile on his face. “Is this about the Dementor attack? Because I’m sure Madame Pomfrey has stuffed me with enough chocolate to fill my head with just the taste.”

“It’s not. I just wondered, that’s all,” Hermione picks at a loose thread, sounding unsure of her own request. She has heard a small part, from his talks between herself and Ron, but it is not enough. She knows that Harry has been hiding it, hiding away his summer life. Why then would he have been screaming for his mother? “I know you might not feel comfortable telling me. But I’m here, Harry.” She pauses before reaching over to grab his hand and squeezing it. “I’m here.”

He stares at their entwined fingers, the last of the cold leaving him. Harry is struck by the profound feeling of her unconditional care, eyes warm and ever so loving. He swallows nervously and Hermione does not let go as he begins to speak of Dudley, his cupboard under the stairs, his life before Hogwarts. She looks into his eyes as he speaks, not as The-Boy-Who-Lived, but as Harry. And in the hours that the fire winds down, she holds his hand and reminds him that he can always be Harry, just Harry.

.

.

The first time their separate warmth’s meet, they are in squishy sleeping bags, looking up at the night sky. It is so very Muggle to most of Hogwarts, but Hermione can picture doing this on a hill some day. Sirius Black has attacked The Fat Lady and they know that he is after Harry. Hermione and Harry whisper over Ron’s snores, falling asleep with their arms close but not yet touching. It’s comforting to feel this close, but it has always been comfortable with Hermione to begin with.

When they wake, it takes several long moments to realise that their fingers have intertwined through the night. It takes several more moments for them to separate.

.

.

The second time, they are body to body.

“You’ll be fine, okay?” Harry is trying to sound reassuring but everyone knows that Hermione hates flying. And riding a broom is definitely much easier than riding a hippogriff. They’re running out of time but Hermione is afraid, she is just so afraid. Her hands are shaking on top of Harry’s sides and even their layers of clothing cannot hide the movement. Finally he grabs for them, pulling them close to his heart, covering her hands with his own. He breathes in and she does the same. They breathe out together. In. Out. In. Out.

“Harry, I’m ready,” she finally whispers. She tucks her face into his shoulder, preparing herself for the inevitable drop in her stomach once Buckbeak takes flight. He knows that she’s worried still but his godfather is counting on them to save his life. Without a thought, Harry ducks down to press his lips quickly on her hands and she gasps quietly.

“Hermione,” Harry says, just as they are about to take flight. “Don’t let go of me.”

.

.

**iv.**

Something happens between them once Harry’s name is pulled from the Goblet of Fire, something that shows their connection, the trust that is hard to break. Hermione is the only person to believe that he hasn’t put his name in the goblet, he can see it in her eyes before he has even tried to defend himself. She grips him for a quick moment, before pushing him to a destiny he never wanted.

“Are you scared?” Hermione asks, later that week. She is, for him. Harry can see it in the shaking of her hands. Ron is mad, begging off sleep with a gruff voice and stomping up to the dorms as soon as he can. From her seat in the corner, she moves to his couch and lays her trembling fingers on his arm.

“I don’t want to be,” Harry replies, barely containing a shiver at the thought that people have _died_ for a competition.

“That’s not the same thing though, is it, Harry?” Hermione looks at him. Harry closes his eyes briefly before looking down at her hands. Always so perfectly clean, always so perfect between his. He grabs for them and without a thought, she is already gripping him. Her shaking stops as she moves closer to him, heart stuttering so hard that he must hear it. Three years of friendship, three years of utmost faith in each other. There is a long moment as they both decide whether or not to move in, then Hermione reaches up as Harry bends down.

Their lips touch briefly, unsure. Then there is the definite press as they unconsciously push to be even closer. That is all they do, but the warmth spreads through him every time he remembers.

.

.

Once rumours begin and they see how Ron reacts, Harry and Hermione pretend like nothing has even happened. It has always been better this way, no need for privacy when there is nothing to be private about. Why upset Ron when they can simply keep the peace? She meets Viktor in the library and Harry sets his eyes on Cho Chang.

“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Harry tells her once their arms are linked and the music has begun. Her dress floats with her and Harry thinks that there is no girl more beautiful than her at the Yule ball, not even Fleur.

“Don’t say that,” Hermione whispers, a frown gracing her face. Harry freezes at that, thankfully the same time as the pause in the song, before he lifts her up into the air. There’s a quick flash of hurt in her eyes, too quick for anyone but Harry to notice. “Please don’t tell me I’m beautiful, Harry.”

 _Not when nothing can happen._ The smile is back on her face, a little bitter, but there. It’s much like their friendship, different but maybe a little stronger after getting a taste of what could have been. They dance in silence until the song ends and Harry takes a bow, one hand holding hers.

“I would have asked you, if I could,” Harry murmurs to the floor. As he straightens up, her smile is even more heartbreaking than before.

“I would have said yes, if I could,” Hermione replies before stepping way and disappearing from view. She returns to Viktor and he returns to Padma. It is easy to return to what was, after all. Painful, yes, but still easy when there is so little to begin with.

Ron insults her and Hermione feels a slight tear in her resolve. She bursts into tears and tells Ron that it is all his fault. She means it more than the other boy will ever understand. It seems that Harry and Hermione have ended far quicker than they had begun. And it hurts a little more than a little.

.

.

They are researching in the library, preparing for the third task. And for something both so mundane and so dangerous, Harry is not sure there is any other place he’d rather be.

For once, Viktor is not with Hermione, so he has her to herself, albeit separated by a mountain of books, a hovering parchment of spells, and Ron snoring at his feet. Noticing that Harry has stopped flipping pages, Hermione looks up and quirks a brow. “What is it? We’ve only been here for three hours.”

“Nothing. This is nice,” Harry shrugs then returns to his tome. Hermione lips curve into a smile from his peripheral vision and she drags herself closer to his warmth until she can comfortably lean her head on his shoulder. He is struck by the sudden normality of that moment and closes his eyes to cherish the quiet reprieve.

Ron twitches in his sleep and they all wake from their separate stupors. He blinks blearily at the picture of Harry and Hermione, crawls two steps, and drops his head just where their knees meet. Hermione laughs softly as she hears him snoring, then begins on a new chapter.

.

.

**v.**

When Harry kisses Cho, he feels a sense of wrongness with the right. Or perhaps it is a small sense of right with all the wrong. She is crying because of Cedric and it has been months of him feeling like they are supposed to be together. Harry knows that in another time and place, it would not be Cho Chang standing underneath a mistletoe. But, alas, he is in this time and in this place.

When Hermione finds out, the only indication that she cares at all is the quick, thinning of her lips before she has moved on.

"You're okay with this?" Harry hurries to catch up to her as she makes her way to the library once more. Hermione gives Harry a carefully confused look, hands gripping her books a little too tightly. "You're okay with me and Cho, I mean."

"I don't think I'm allowed to be anything but okay," Hermione answers, voice clipped and strained. She walks faster down the halls, holding her books so tight that Harry can see the whiteness in the knuckles of her hands. She looks resigned, almost, and Harry feels bitterly guilty.

"It never felt like my first kiss," Harry tells her. Then he's placed a hand over hers and Hermione has stopped walking to look at him, to see the truth in his eyes. Before Hermione can say much else, Harry is already pulling her off to the side, a dark corner where they can't be seen. She's reaching up and he's bending down and then they are kissing and everything feels right in all its rightness.

"Did it ever feel—" Hermione starts to ask but is cut off by Harry's kiss. And he's covering the hand she has pressed against his chest with his own, entwining their fingers because it is the most natural thing in the world. When they break apart, Harry tucks a stray strand into Hermione's ear, breathing deeply and holding her as close as possible. His eyes reflect her own, hopeful and almost sad.

"I don't think anything can ever feel like this."

.

.

“And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am too,” Hermione adds as an afterthought. _Merlin knows that Cho Chang is much, much prettier than me_ , he can almost hear her say. Harry’s eyes narrow at the most ridiculous piece of advice he has ever heard. He looks at her to see if she’s joking but Hermione’s gaze is everywhere but on Harry.

“But I don’t think you’re ugly.” Harry says, almost exasperated with her self-deprecation. _You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever encountered_ , he doesn’t say.

When he thinks about that moment, he feels that he should have. Harry never has that same chance to say it again.

.

.

Cho and Harry don’t work out because of Hermione. He doesn’t tell Hermione because nothing can happen between them. The Weasleys are his family and he knows that they want Ron to be with Hermione and they want Ginny to be with him. Harry tells himself this again and again until he can push back any feelings he has for his best friend. He continues to love her anyway.

.

.

They do not get many quiet moments, not really. With Harry’s visions and the constancy of looming danger, there is no such thing as true restfulness. Hermione feels terribly guilty that she is grateful for the silence.

It's a very Muggle kind of thing. Held at the forgotten backyard of Grimmauld Place, just the two of them. Sirius never got his own funeral, the hero whose soul and body disappeared behind the Veil. Together, they plant flowers, working late into the afternoon. Harry has not spoken since Hermione walked in, holding up a bag of seeds and another of tools. She doesn't mind, she knows he needs this. It has been months and yet, they do not get many quiet moments.

Eventually, half of the garden space is scattered with seeds—randomly, because there is so much beauty in the chaos of things. And then, with a barely there sniffle, Harry cries. Not the way he had when he had seen the face of his godfather go slack and disappear behind the veil, not even the same way as he had in the weeks after. Today he weeps quietly, the last time he will cry for Sirius Black.

Hermione crawls over, removing her gardening gloves, then Harry's. She places one hand over his and proceeds to wrap herself around him from the side, dropping her head on his shoulder and kissing the scratchy cotton of his shirt ever so softly. She grips his hand in hers and holds him to her like he will break if she lets go. And Harry breathes in and out, looking through blurred vision at her small hand encased in both of his. The only time she speaks is to whisper softly into his shoulder, words carrying away in the wind. It is their little secret.

"I'm here, Harry. I'm here."

.

.

 **vi**.

The Amortentia reminds Hermione of freshly cut grass, new parchment, spearmint toothpaste, and what smells like Ron’s hair until she is sitting quietly in the library just a little before lunch. Harry comes in, slowing down under Madam Pince’s reproachful gaze, and places himself right next to Hermione. He apologises about Saturday Quidditch training running late and in one quick inhale, Hermione’s heart stutters.

“Have you been using Ron’s shampoo?” Hermione asks, just to make sure. He has set out his writing materials and the fresh scent of unused parchment hits her stronger. Harry looks at her like she’s crazy. She smiles like it means nothing but inside she thinks, _please please please please_.

“No. He keeps borrowing mine.”

She lets out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Tucked away in a dark, quiet corner, Hermione hides them with a newly perfected concealment charm, followed by a Muffliato. Harry, silent from the moment their fingers touched and she pulled him from the view of watchers, finally whispers, “you’re so beautiful,” then kisses her softly. It feels like their first and last, much like every other stolen kiss in dark, quiet corners.

“This can’t happen again,” Hermione mumbles into his chest, sweaty hair clinging to her forehead. 

“Yeah, I know,” Harry smiles wryly. Hermione huffs, smiles, gives him a quick kiss, then steps away. And is promptly pulled back into his arms. "I should probably get a proper goodbye kiss, then."

Hermione is helpless against the torrent of heartbeats rushing in her ears.

.

.

There is a Muggle movie about a man and a woman who meet and meet again and again. The man tells the woman that men and women cannot simply be friends. One, the other, or both will simply fall in love and it will hurt. It will hurt a lot.

Harry must be the first to fall out of love because he’s thinking of Ginny and Dean together and it makes him jealous. He’s never been jealous seeing Hermione and Ron together, he’s never really been jealous of Hermione with anyone together. He convinces himself that this is because of that Muggle movie. He knows that he can’t lose Hermione by falling in love with her. So he simply tries to stop.

It works in a way. It doesn’t in many other ways.

.

.

When Harry starts dating Ginny, it leaves a sour taste in Hermione’s mouth every time she sees them. It builds up until she barely has an appetite. And from there she starts to feel the tears pushing behind her eyes. She knows somehow that Ginny will be the one that marries Harry, she’s been in love with him far longer than Hermione has.

 _But I know him better_ , she thinks bitterly. Then she thinks that knowing him better won’t necessarily mean she can love him any better than Ginny has. Maybe she can’t. Hermione knows that she has never allowed herself the whole-hearted chance to do so. _That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt_.

Hermione holds it in for so long that the sight of them makes her run away in tears, weaving through stone hallways and slipping into the abandoned girl’s bathroom in the second floor. She expects to see Myrtle, she does not expect to see Draco Malfoy sitting on the floor crying.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione blurts out before even registering that she has spoken. He flinches and his wand is raised just as her waterfall of tears begin to make their way down her cheeks.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Draco manages to sneer at her. It’s ruined by the tear tracks on his face and a patch of hair pushed up haphazardly by one hand.

“I—” she chokes on a sob that bubbles up. Now that it has begun, she’s not sure she can stop herself from crying. She thinks, _what the fuck_ is _wrong with me?_ but she says, “I’ll—I’ll just go.”

She pushes her palms to her eyes and tries to force herself to stop the pitiful whimpering coming from her throat. Hermione’s backing up blindly when she hears it. “Granger.” She stops and looks up at Draco Malfoy’s blurry form. His wand is loosely held, back on the bathroom tile. He’s not even looking at her, leaning his head to the wall and looking at a high window. He doesn’t say a word, just slowly pats the space beside him.

They don’t speak, they don’t really have to. Hermione’s not sure how Harry or Ron would react if they knew she had wept on Draco Malfoy’s shoulder. What would they say if they had seen the way he held her? The way he had kissed her? Tears running down both their faces, no words between them, just that moment. Their quiet, comforting moment. She returns to the dormitories and starts on her Charms assignment. She never does tell anyone about that day.

.

.

Hermione slips into Harry’s bed, glad for the silencing spell when he shrieks. She crawls to him slowly and watches the shock disappear as his face shutters and he never manages to look straight at her. He is still pale after a few minutes and she knows that it he must still see all the blood seeping out of Draco from his Sectumsempra. After a strained silence, she moves her hand, one finger at a time, over to his.

Harry lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, feeling the heavy weight of his guilt slip away at the warmth of her slim hand over his. His green eyes flutter shut, then focus on her fully once they open. Something tugs at Hermione’s heart as she watches the entire process, realising just how lost and tired Harry must be. She brings up a hand to touch his cheek and Harry leans into it with a quiet whimper.

She launches herself at him, a mess of curls and limbs and tears, wondering how she could have stayed away from him and starved them both of such habitual comfort. _I’m here, Harry_ , she tucks herself further into his neck, kissing the jut of his collarbone. _I’m here._  

Hermione Disillusions herself and slips away just as the sun is rising. Harry wakes alone but remembers the warmth of her body moulded into his, even as Ginny smiles ever so prettily at him over breakfast.

.

.

When Dumbledore dies, Hermione and Ron promise to be with Harry through and through. It’s simple, really. They love each other, each in their own way. Enough to put their lives on hold, maybe just for now, maybe just forever. Enough to give up their parents, their childhood’s, their hopes, dreams, aspirations.

She doesn’t let Ron know of her plans, not until after. She asks Harry if she’s doing the right thing. He says no, but then jokes that they’ll both be orphans then, because he already knows she won’t change her mind. She laughs, then cries. Hermione takes away her parents memories and bottles them in the glass jar she used to catch fireflies in as a child. Then she Apparates straight on to the front porch of the Dursley household and gives him the container of memories to hide away. Wordlessly, he holds her shaking hands in his. He holds her all night and doesn’t even have to ask.

This is just how she loves Harry Potter.

.

.

**vii.**

The thing about ignoring feelings is that they’ll still be there when you get back to them. They jump on him at the worst possible time, truly. Bill and Fleur have just become Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Harry is thinking of Hermione Jean Granger.

He thinks, _Hermione Jean Potter would sound good. She’d write it as HJP, just like I do_. It is the most trivial thing to consider, that she’ll only have to change one initial and people might start confusing letters between the both of them. Harry’s not even quite sure what makes him think of it but these thoughts are much preferred to the covetous spikes running through him at the sight of Hermione with Viktor Krum.

Unlike Ron, Harry does not make a big deal about it, choosing to stay silent when he finds out that they have stayed in contact. There is nothing he’s allowed to say, not when he and Hermione had nothing between them. _But that’s not true_ , a small voice in his head tells him.

 _You gave her up because everyone made it clear that she should be with Ron._  
_You stopped fighting for her because being with Ginny was easy._  
_You were weak and now it’s too late.  
_ _You don’t deserve her._

“Harry?” Hermione sidles up to him, smiling shyly. His lips curve up and he’s giving her that look again, the one saying that she is the most beautiful girl in the world. She tries to get another word in but Harry has already grabbed her hand. As he’s pulling her back to the dance floor a calmness spreads to him, like this is all he’ll ever need.

Hermione stares at their intertwined fingers, the way they meet palm to palm, then wrist to wrist, so effortless between them, so easy to keep holding on to him this way. Then she shakes her head, as if to get rid of the Nargles, and looks into his emerald eyes. No one really notices that they’re dancing a little too close. They’re not meant to be, after all.

.

.

“What do you dream of doing, when the war is over?” Hermione whispers at the forest, her pinky just touching his. Harry gives her a side glance, face thoughtful. At his look, Hermione turns to him and positions herself sideways to lean into her conjured lawn chair and watch him comfortably. She waits as he considers the question.

“I’d like to shower first.” She laughs. “Then I’d like to have a Chocolate Frog, preferably with Professor Dumbledore’s card. And then—” he breaks off, checking that the tent is still closed and Ron is still asleep. “Then I’d like to kiss you for a little bit, if that’s okay.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, a blush starting on her cheeks. “I’m serious, Harry. What do you want to do in five years, or ten, or twenty?”

“I’d like to be doing the same things as I’ve listed,” he answers cheekily, but he squeezes the hand that he’s holding so she knows he’s telling the truth. Hermione looks down at their hands, a little surprised, wondering when they became attached. “What about you, Hermione?”

“I’d…like to go into the Ministry of course. Maybe the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?” Hermione shrugs, almost embarrassed at the simplicity of her dreams. Then without thinking she says, “And I’d like to kiss you back for a little bit, if that’s okay.”

Harry laughs and it shoots straight into her heart, warming the rest of her body. She can’t remember the last time she’s heard him laugh. But she remembers the first time she heard it. Walking back from the dungeons after the troll attack, five extra points to Gryffindor and the exhilarated chuckle of being alive. Even then, at eleven years old, Hermione Granger knew that Harry Potter would be important in her life.

“Twenty years from now, I’d like to do this,” Harry makes a waving motion with the free hand. “Not the running for our lives part. But the three of us camping. It’s so novel, so Muggle, I’d love to do this again with you two.”

Hermione beams and it’s almost blinding. He can’t remember the last time she’s smiled that big, but he remembers the first time. He’ll always remember.

.

.

Everything changes when Ron leaves. A little part of Hermione breaks, and she cries when she realises that his immaturity, self-doubt, and jealousy will continue to disappoint her. She cries harder when she realises that this is how she will love Ron Weasley.

And yet, of the three cots in the tent, only one is used every night. Hermione thinks her heart may give up on her when Harry touches her, arm draped softly over her waist, lips to the juncture between her should and her neck. He lets her cry because he’s Harry and he has always understood her, possibly better than she understands herself.

Finally, she touches him back, because it is easy. She interlaces their fingers and watches as the back of her hand meets with the front of his, the space disappearing as his warmth covers hers fully. For the first few nights she clutches him like she is afraid he will leave her, too. Then, when she has forgotten about Ron, she holds his hand because she can, because she wants to, because she has always wanted to.

He kisses her when the snow starts to fall, his fingers tentative and just a little clumsy as they make their way over her. She feels a flicker of satisfaction when he mumbles that he’s never done this before. But mostly she feels loved, safe, and she’s not sure anything is even real anymore. Feelings she has been repressing for years are suddenly overflowing and there are tears again but this time, “no, Harry, I’m just so, so happy.”

“Me, too,” Harry whispers. He bumps his sweaty forehead against hers and just looks into her eyes, gripping one hand with his as if making sure that he’s truly awake. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy."

.

.

Everything changes again when Ron comes back. Harry wants to hate him for breaking Hermione’s heart, he wants to punch Ron on his freckled nose. He wants to be angry that Ron is ruining everything once more. But then he sees their figures come out of the cursed Slytherin locket and he understands. He wants to hate Ron, but he can’t. Instead, Harry forgives him because Hermione loves Ron and Harry loves them both and it is simply much better not to fight anymore.

.

.

When Hermione is tortured, Harry shuts off. He has battled Dementors, a dragon, Death Eaters, even Voldemort himself. Nothing prepares him for the screams. Ron rams against the door but Harry is frozen, his worst fears coming to be just a few meters away from him. He finally realises, as Hermione’s voice goes so high that it cracks and merges into sobs, that people are dying for him. Everyone he loves has signed on to give up their life for The-Boy-Who-Lived, whether he wants them to or not.

Dobby’s eyes go glassy and Harry feels the body slowly going cold in his arms and still, Hermione’s tortured cries continue to echo in his ears.

“I’ll kill her,” Harry whispers, eyes glazed over as he stares at the ugly cut on Hermione’s neck. _Mudblood_ rings in his head, mingling with the sound of her screams. Bile rises in his throat and he realises that he must blink back the wetness in his eyes.

“Don’t. Not for me, at least,” Hermione tells him, lifting her hand up to his cheek and wiping the stray tear ghosting downwards. He leans into the touch, bringing his own hand to hers, pushing his fingers between hers and clasping slowly. They say nothing else because silences are a rarity that mean they can rest their bones, even just for a moment, even if there is a war and people are dying and Hermione has just been tortured. Harry stays quiet and looks at her like she’s so precious, he looks at her until her eyes flutter shut and her breathing slows to sleep.

He traces the scabbed cut and thinks, _I’d kill them all for you if it meant you’d never get hurt again._

.

.

It is her screams he hears when Dementor comes, gripping at his heart with ice. He regrets ever wishing the voice of his mother away.

.

.

Harry is dead and the life they were never going to have flashes before her eyes. And a little part of her dies and it takes long to recover, even when she finds out that he is still alive.

When they are alone she says, “don’t ever do that again,” and bursts into tears. Because she can still remember the moment she had seen his inert body. And he has the audacity to laugh even though there truly are those that are dead. Fred, Remus, Tonks, Colin, they have given up their lives for a war against a man that wanted to live forever.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was just a man at war, much like Harry. But the one thing worth fighting for is crying in his arms and he understands that for all their similarities, he will never be like Lord Voldemort. 

Harry kisses the top of her bushy head and whispers fiercely, “I promise you, Hermione, I plan to stay by your side for as long as I can." 

Minutes later, Ron clears his throat just a few feet away. He looks unsure, but not uncomfortable or unwelcome. Hermione glances up at him from Harry’s tear-soaked chest and in unison, they all reach out for each other. They stand there for long minutes, relieved tears seeping into shabby clothes. It is over. Finally.

.

.

They remember that they are not the only ones who lived through a war, they remember that there are many who did not. The repairs on Hogwarts have begun and the pair attend every single funeral that they are invited to, staying quietly at the back and laying their own roses by every grave. One red, one white.

After a while, it becomes difficult to keep crying. Instead they hold on to each other, hands gripped so tight it could possibly bruise. But pain is trivial when compared to death. Hermione tries to unbind their hands once, uncomfortable when a random couple stares daggers at them, but Harry only tightens his grasp.

“Please don’t,” Harry’s voice breaks. He’s not even looking at her, bloodshot eyes still focused on the picture of a 7th year Hufflepuff boy he had only seen around the halls between classes. _Just another martyr to the cause_ , he thinks bitterly. _Thank you for your kind service._ She doesn’t ask but he still answers, “I’m scared of what will happen when you let go.”

_You’re the only thing keeping me from shattering into a million pieces._

Hermione nods and returns her gaze to the front of the Muggle church. He loosens his grip but keeps their hands interlaced. It starts to drizzle as they move towards the new headstone, a rose in each of their free hands.

_I just need to know it's okay that this is going to be our life now._

One red rose, followed by one white is placed carefully on the ground. Before they Apparate away, Hermione looks up into Harry’s green eyes and says, “I know exactly what you mean.”

.

.

 _La tristesse durera toujours_ , it plays in his head, the words Hermione whispered one night when Ron left them in the woods. _The sadness will last forever_. As the Weasley’s mourn, Harry and Hermione learn their place in the circle. Fred was like a brother, but he wasn’t truly their brother, their son, their twin. It’s hard to remember that there were others when you lose one of your own. 

Harry owls Kingsley for a Portkey to Australia as soon as can be done. _You owe me_ , he wants to add, but has never intended to use his status to get ahead in life. Within the hour he receives a slightly heavy envelope with a shiny, self-activating Knut. They leave the Burrow within the day. Ron stays behind because he wants to and they say nothing else. No one has ever doubted that Harry and Hermione can function between the two of them.

It’s an escape. The wind is cold but the beaches are still beautiful, bright, and sunny. For six days they walk around hand in hand, like children exploring a playground. Freckles appear on Hermione’s nose and Harry kisses them one afternoon. It becomes easy to forget their duties, their life back home, the broken pieces from the war left behind. And then Harry spots a woman that looks like the one in the pictures from Hermione’s childhood home. He points her out to Hermione and she takes one step, two, then starts walking straight to Monica Wilkins.

Hermione stops when she catches sight of the small, pink swaddle in her mother’s arms. When Harry catches up to her, he is momentarily shocked but lays his hand on the small of Hermione's back and pushes her forward gently until the previous Mrs. Granger looks up. After a guarded second, she smiles when she realises that the two simply want to look at the little bundle in her arms.

“She’s beautiful,” Hermione whispers, eyes blurred with tears. Harry notices that the baby has Hermione’s nose, bringing his arm around her waist and pulling her closer into him. She gratefully falls against his strength, finding that she has none of her own to keep herself up.

“That’s my girl,” another voice says suddenly. They look up to see Hermione’s father walking towards them with steaming styrofoam cups and a tired smile on his face. “She’s been crying for days so we decided to take her out and she fell right to sleep.”

“I used to do that too, remember?” Hermione says, then freezes when she realises what she’s just said. The Wilkins give her an odd look as if trying to figure out whether or not she is addressing them.

“Yeah, you told me that your mum used to have to walk you around the block to get you to calm down,” Harry pipes up. Subtly he gives her side a squeeze and feels her body unclench around his. Taking a steadying breath he asks, “what’s her name?”

“Hermione.” A proud smile. She laughs, then looks at the couple with bright eyes.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Hermione tells them. Then she steps out of Harry’s grasp to wind their hands together, still looking down at the sleeping baby. She takes a calming breath, then shakes her head slightly before looking back up at her parents. “Good luck raising her, I’m sure she’ll be ever so intelligent. Come on, Harry, best be on our way.”

They leave the Grangers and don’t look back. On the seventh day, they have a quiet breakfast by the water, hands reaching across the table and the other used for eating. In the end, they pack up their belongings and Portkey back to London.The Grangers, now Wilkins, are happy where they are, they have built a life for themselves oceans away from their forgotten first daughter. Hermione’s life is with Harry and the Weasleys in the Wizarding world, she can only hope to be as happy as she builds it.

.

.

The Ministry offers start coming in. Hermione wakes up one morning to the sound of owls tapping on her window impatiently. In a daze she counts out twenty-one different letters, all addressed to _Ms. Hermione Jean Granger_ from different departments, many she had not even heard of. Slightly frightened by the idea that her future is now, Hermione gathers the envelopes in her hand and makes her way to the kitchen, banging on Harry’s door on the way. As Kreacher is serving her breakfast, Harry enters with his own stack of letters, hair even more tussled from sleep.

“I've just received twenty-six letters from the Ministry, I thought I was having a nightmare when I woke up,” Harry grumbles, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he throws them on the dining table in disgust. He’s a seventeen year old that just won a war and they now expect him to put on work robes and act like an adult. He accepts a cup of tea from his house elf with a quick murmur of thanks before turning back to the letters. “This on top of all the thank you notes, Prophet articles, and gifts; I feel a little suffocated, to be honest."

When Ron comes knocking with his own set of letters, he’s truly happy for the first time since the war. Grabbing a slice of toast and shoving the entire piece in his mouth, he says, “this is great news! Jobs for all of us."

“It’s only been three months, Ronald,” Hermione’s voice comes out more sharply than intended but she goes on. “How can they simply expect us to take over? If you’ve forgotten, people died.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ron’s eyes go dark and immediately Hermione feels guilty. He shrugs it off before she can apologise. “But, Harry, ‘Mione, don’t you guys see? This is our chance to change the future, not just for ourselves, but for others who shouldn’t have to experience what we have.”

When Hermione gives an agreeing nod, Ron dives for the pile of letters and picks up the only opened envelope. “This ones from Kingsley himself, saying that we can become Aurors without taking the N.E.W.T.s!”

Hermione gives an affronted gasp while Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. He sifts through his own letters to find one from the newest Minister of Magic, verifying everything Ron had just said. Despite himself, his interest is piqued. So under Ron’s excited gaze and Hermione’s reproachful look, Harry nods and tells him, “maybe, Ron. Maybe.”

Ron’s smile widens and he says, “just think about it, mate, you’ve been changing the world for years because of some prophesy. But now you’re just Harry and you can do anything you want."

.

.

She knocks softly on Harry’s door before slipping into his room. He’s on his back, looking up at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Hermione asks as she nudges him to the other side of the bed and settles over the warmth he leaves behind.

“I’ve wanted to be an Auror for years,” he answers listlessly, his tone implying that there is a _but_ to the sentence. Hermione shifts to her side and looks up at half of Harry’s face. He sighs. “But I’ve also been fighting for years. I don’t know if I have it in me anymore.”

Hermione kisses the scratchy cotton of his shoulder before replying. “Maybe you need to stop seeing your life as surviving and start seeing it as actually living. Maybe you’ve been holding it in and just have to start breathing. Maybe we both have.”

“Maybe,” Harry echoes. “Yes, probably.” He sighs again. Unconsciously he reaches down to hold her hand, a gesture that suggests he is trying to stable himself through her touch. Hermione tucks herself closer into Harry, rubbing her thumb on the patch of skin she can reach easily. 

“Breathe for me please, Harry,” Hermione murmurs into his arm. She breathes in deeply, then breathes out. In. Out. In. Out. He doesn’t realise that he’d been shaking until their entwined hands settle solidly on his chest. He let’s out another long breath. 

“It’s the most appropriate route to go, it’s something I think I’d really be good at,” Harry says out loud, mostly trying to convince himself. “I just didn’t think I’d get here so soon. I feel like I’m never ready for anything.”

“I don’t think you’ll know if you’re ever ready,” Hermione mumbles. “But maybe Ron’s doing the right thing in trying to move on from the war, isn’t that what we all want to do?” 

“Yes, but can I really do this?” His tone takes on a high note from the start of panic. Hermione laughs. 

“You’re Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived. _Twice_ ,” Hermione teases. He huffs, pretending to be mad but failing to cover the smile quirking at his lips.

“What about you?” Harry finally asks. “Will you join us?"

“I’m not sure that I’ll ever be ready enough to become an Auror,” Hermione glances quickly at the silver scars on her forearm. 

“That’s alright,” Harry says, gently. “Doesn’t make you less brave, you’re still my Hermione.”

“And you’re everyone’s hero but you can be just Harry with me,” Hermione whispers back. He smiles at that, then wraps an arm around her and starts breathing deeply again. 

“You should go back to school,” Harry blurts out randomly. But Hermione is already asleep. He shakes his head and reminds himself to tell her when she wakes.

.

.

After all the blood shed and the memories still fresh, nightmares leaving them screaming deep into the night, she knows that Harry needs this. They both need this moment, just them. With their separate letters of intent sent through the owls, they glance at each other from their cups of tea and realise that the wind has started to remind them of freedom. They know that Ron will be helping George return to work today so it means they will not be disturbed. Still, Hermione flicks another ward to the front door before she removes the teacup from Harry’s hand and settles herself on his lap.

“Are you sure about this?” Harry questions. No matter how many nights they might end up laying in the same bed, they had never sought to repeat their one night of intimacy at the Forest of Dean.

“I’m not scared,” Hermione quirks a brow, making herself appear more confident despite the slight shake in her statement. She doesn’t have to say that there are more things she has been afraid of than sex.

“I know,” Harry rolls his eyes, his hands now winding themselves around her frame and bring her closer to his chest. “What I really mean to ask is, are you sure you know why you’re doing this?"

Hermione scoffs, then shivers as she finally understands. _He knows I’m doing this because I’ll be at Hogwarts and he’ll be here_ , the back of her mind whispers. She stutters out, “Harry,” hands moving to touch his face, but says nothing else.

“You don’t have to say goodbye to me, Hermione.” Thumbs dig deeper into her hips, green eyes shining brightly. He pauses, waiting for her to contest. She looks back at him instead, and the silence stretches.

“I’m not trying to say goodbye,” Hermione finally whispers, eyes making the slow descent to Harry’s lips. “I just want to say—” her breath catches, too emotional to continue. But he knows.

Harry kisses her then. They don’t know how they reach his bedroom but their clothes are already off and all that matters is the moment between them. Hermione rides him slowly, bathed in sunshine and flushed pink with pleasure. He can do nothing but stare at her in awe, as he always has. Their hands come together, grasping tight, saying I love you in their own way. And it is enough, in this moment, to finally convince them that the war is over and they are free. Even as she is falling asleep afterwards, naked body curled in his, Harry continues to gaze at her in wonder.

This is just how he loves Hermione Granger.

.

.

**viii.**

Hermione returns to school while Ron and Harry begin their Auror training. She ends up becoming Draco Malfoy’s partner for almost all her classes, essentially because no one else wants to be. Soon she learns that it is ever so easy to like Draco Malfoy, especially when he has forgotten all his pureblood notions and Slytherin ways. Now he is just Draco and she is just Hermione. Mostly she likes that he does not see her as part of the Golden Trio and they can now have teasing rapport about old issues.

Ron is dismayed when he finds out about her growing friendship with their old enemy. Harry is mildly amused but cares rather that she is happy because they are only starting to find happiness in the things around them. They write letters to each other every day, quick little notes that she receives while having breakfast with the other 8th years, then sends hers back before the afternoon so that both Ron and Harry can read her replies as soon as they end training for the day.

This is her life for the first two months. Breakfast comes with a note, classes come with a subdued sneer from Draco, afternoons are spent in the library hidden behind shelves with her feet on the lap of the very same blonde, and nights are soon filled with hesitant laughter. Though she reads about how their days are like and the remnants of the war still in Wizarding London, Hermione feels safe enough to heal behind the walls of Hogwarts.

.

.

Myrtle drifts into Draco’s dormitory room, a serious look on her translucent face. He almost breaks his neck sprinting to the second floor bathroom, fear making his blood go cold and any words stick in his throat. Hermione’s head is buried in her hands, school robe carelessly thrown to the side and regular clothes a damp scarlet.

She looks up as Draco slams into the abandoned bathroom, breathless from his run and panicked. She hasn’t yet cried but tears start to fill her eyes at the pitiful look that overcomes his face once he sees her.

“I didn’t even know. I didn’t even think,” her whisper echoes across the once pristine white tiles. She takes a heavy breath once, twice, then finally succumbs to her tears. With a sad sigh, Draco makes his way to her and pulls her into his arms while Myrtle stays silent by her perch. Hermione quietly sobs until she falls asleep from exhaustion, tucked into the crevice of Draco’s body like a child under a safety blanket.

Hours later, Draco spells away the pool of blood and runs a diagnostic over a frail Hermione. He doesn’t ask and she doesn’t explain, hand on her stomach and looking as far away as Luna Lovegood.

“You’re okay.” It’s not a question. Brown eyes flick to grey, watering slightly.

“Yes.” It’s not an answer. She attempts a smile and he exhales softly.

Draco and Hermione enter the Great Hall for breakfast separately but her hand slips into his once they are seated together, the only hand she has held since Harry Potter. Hermione makes the decision not to tell him, the second time she has shared a secret with just Draco Malfoy. The Slytherin Obliviates her and keeps a copy his memory in a small glass vial, soft light swimming in the hidden part of his trunk. He never speaks of it again.

.

.

Harry is finally getting to moving the Black fortune into the Potter vault when he catches sight of it. Small, green velvet box thrown in haphazardly with all his parents’ gold. He stares at the beautiful ring inside for long moments but ultimately deciding to leave it behind. Harry is visiting Hogsmeade in an hour and knows the danger of carrying something like that around forany Prophet reporters to see. 

The little box never leaves his mind.

.

.

By November, Hermione can already feel the strain from the distance and the separate lives they lead. _Ginny and I are thinking of trying again_ , comes unexpectedly and Hermione feels the blood in her heart turn to ice as she sees the redhead walk in with a bright smile and a blush on her cheeks. Draco drags Hermione to the Astronomy tower and they spend the day on their backs, having tea and cakes popped in by house elves and quietly telling secrets.

He dreams of becoming a healer. With hands that once caused pain, he hopes to help others. He is afraid for his mother, who lives at the Manor alone with memories even worse than the one that has left the thin sliver of a scar on her neck. He is afraid of the Malfoy name because it comes with the Dark Mark and doesn’t want the same future for his son. Hermione curls into Draco’s body and shakes as she speaks about her parents, now living a wonderful life with their newborn, Hermione Wilkins. She talks about the Weasley family and how they expect her to marry Ron. She admits that she is afraid to lose the only other family she has if she does the unthinkable and takes Harry away from Ginny, too. 

“You love him.” Not a question. Spoken thoughtfully, free of jealousy or anger, nothing like how Ron would react.

“I can’t have him.” Not a question either. Spoken honestly, free of bitterness, almost resigned in a way.

Draco hums in understanding, pulling her closer and knocking his chin against her head in childish comfort. Hermione sighs into him, wondering how it became easier to speak to Draco Malfoy than both Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. After a moment she decides that the war changes everyone and perhaps, simple love is something that she needs. From that day on, they spend even more time with each other.

He becomes one of her best friends and she saves him from his name with an easy smile and a fierce kiss to the tattoo on his left arm. She tells him, "this is not who you are," and he believes her. When they are naked, she insists that he remove the concealment charm, and falls over the edge gripping at it because _all it is is another scar._

It is an odd sensation to become close to someone and drift apart from other people. Hannah Abbott and sometimes Neville join them in their trips to the Black Lake, and her laughter becomes loud and free. She’s spent seven years with the same people and now it feels like she’s relearning them, seeing who they truly are without Ron or Harry asking her for help with homework and taking up her time. Draco and Hermione swim in the icy water of the lake and warm up against each other in the Room of Requirement.

“I think I could love you,” Hermione mumbles into his chest.

“Yeah,” he agrees. She falls asleep before she can ask what he is agreeing to.

.

.

“Potter.” An outstretched hand, a held in breath.

“Malfoy.” A hard glint, then a quick shake. She breathes out.

When Draco leaves the Three Broomsticks, Harry has to laugh at himself. Hermione gives him the moment because she already knows that he’s thinking. She already knows that he approves despite himself, despite his own wants, despite hers. Draco is good for her, brings about a change for a better that she’s never had before.

“Well I guess since it was never going to be me,” Harry says wryly. She flinches.

“It’s just a little bit of fun. You know he’ll have to marry a pure-blood.” She shrugs, unbothered, then looks straight into Harry’s eyes. “He understands me, he understands _us_ , Harry.” Hermione gestures between them. Harry’s eyes widen, surprised that Draco Malfoy knows more than he has even thought to tell Ginny. Finally, he smiles and nods at her and she beams, gratitude crinkling at her eyes.

“I didn’t think it would be this hard to see you so happy with someone else,” he tells her. _Someone that isn’t me_. Harry shakes his head again, smile still on his face. “But I think, overall, I’m happy that you’re happy. And eventually, Ron will see it, too.”

“Let’s not give Ron too much credit,” Hermione quips. He laughs at that before his face becomes a little more somber. She feels it too, knows she will feel what he feels even more when they go to the Burrow for the annual Christmas Eve celebration. There are no more words to be spoken between them, so they both stay quiet instead, looking at each other. She takes in the square of his jaw as he watches the warmth of her constantly moving eyes. They memorise each other, drinking features in like it has been years, like it won’t be a week until they see each other again. 

Finally, unable to keep to himself after so long, Harry reaches out across the table. Tentatively, Hermione brings her hand near his. Not enough to slip her fingers into the niche that used to be hers. Just a touch at the edges, playing softly against each other, leaving space where there never used to be. Harry exhales heavily and Hermione completely understands.

_It feels like our hands gather dust when they're apart._

.

.

It is a surprise to no one that Hermione graduates with O’s in all seven of her chosen N.E.W.T.s, it is a surprise to some that Draco does just as well. Finally, it is a surprise to everyone that he is charmingly polite at her utterly Muggle graduation party held at Grimmauld Place.

Hermione fails to keep the gloating smile from her face when Mrs. Weasley is thoroughly impressed by his extensive knowledge on household charms. She realises how easy it has now become for Draco to assimilate himself into regular Wizarding society, without any Pureblood notions keeping him from adapting. Although he remains guarded whenever Ron comes in to view, Draco is already comfortable with Harry and even makes a valiant effort to understand Mr. Weasley’s excitement over Muggle television.

From his spot beside Ginny, Harry watches Hermione. Not blatantly, like Ron, not even too often. But often enough for her to notice and for him to express how much he wants enough to be more than just enough. Hermione tries and fails to ignore him from her peripheral vision, deciding finally to turn her back. It is easier after that, to look at her wonderful, loving boyfriend.

.

.

**1999**

Hermione takes Ron and Harry to the beach near where she grew up. She made them promise not to give any real graduation gifts, but to excuse themselves from work for a one week trip. They stay at her childhood home, new faces filling up the ghosts of her missing parents. It is the first time she’s been back and she’s not sure she can ever return without Ron and Harry with her, so she memorises the two of them in every part of the house that she can.

She teaches Harry to swim every day. Harry is surprised that Ron knows how to, it is apparently both a Muggle and Wizarding thing to do. Ron doesn’t have the patience to swim with a beginner, so he goes around them in laps and burns pink under the sun. He lets them touch and gives them time together as generously as his jealousy can allow. This is how Ronald Weasley loves them.

After the week is through, they are bronzed and pink and freckled. And free, so blissfully free. They spend their last night by the beach, the old tent to the side and squishy new sleeping bags laid out on the sand. Ron’s head is on her lap as he sleeps between Harry and Hermione. The two sit, staring at the fire as Hermione strokes the red hair from Ron’s face. She is content.

Harry offers his hand and she moves hers into the hollow that used to belong only to her. It has been a year and still, nothing can ever feel like this. They make no other mention of their natural attachment, speaking of her new job and the upcoming events. When they wake, all three are a tangle of limbs and her slim fingers are still entwined in his.

.

.

In the quiet moments before dawn breaks, Harry and Hermione sneak out of Grimmauld Place with Harry’s broomstick in tow. She has already given him a birthday gift but a promise is, after all, still a promise. She shivers at the idea of having to be in the air but Harry is just so excited it has become almost contagious.Hermione looks at Harry, shaking her head with a smile, but allows herself to be manoeuvred to a mount, the trill of her heart pumping into her ears.

They soon give up the hope that Hermione will ever be good at flying. For all the books she’s read about Quidditch and the art of flying, nothing prepares her for the quick falls and the bumps, bruises, scrapes, and scratches. She’s not one to give up but Harry finally plucks his broom out of her hands, afraid that the next time she crashes to the ground, she’ll break a bone.

“Oh, please, Harry, the number of times you’ve been to the Hospital Wing because of Quidditch alone,” Hermione rolls her eyes. She tries to make a grab for his broom but Harry jumps backwards, too quick for her.

“And I thought you didn’t like flying,” Harry teases. He knows from her wonder as she rose into the air, even just a few feet up, that she quite likes the feeling, she just happens to lack the ability to control the broom. Hermione huffs and Harry laughs at that before mounting his broom, leaving space behind him. He looks expectantly at Hermione. “Well, get on then.”

Hermione does a little hop before she is behind Harry, arms hesitating to wind around him. It almost feels like forever since she’s been allowed to touch him. Her hands shake minutely as she hugs him, moving in until their bodies are touching. They breathe in collectively, like this is the moment they have both been waiting for, warmth and hope intertwining with their touch.

Harry lets go of the broom, letting their bodies float in the air as he gathers her hands in his own. He grips them softly, tracing at her fingers like he’s trying to memorise every crevice, every line. They sit this way for long minutes, an unspoken agreement that this may be the last time that they can be in each other’s space. Finally, she whispers, “Harry, I’m ready.”

“Hermione,” his voice breaks a little as he unwinds their hands to hold on to the broom. “Don’t let go of me.”

.

.

**2000**

“Hermione.” She looks up from her bill revision, smiling at the offered cup of tea and taking it with a sip. She ends up choking on that sip when Harry goes on one knee and holds up a small, green velvet box. “I—” he stops. “It’s not what you think.” Then shakes his head. “Or it is, hold on.”

“What is it if it’s not what I think, Harry?” Hermione’s still staring at the simple silver band with a square diamond on top. The surprise morphs into alarm then settles into wistfulness.

“Well, you know that Ginny and I love each other.” She flinches at that. “And we both know that you and Ron love each other.” She rolls her eyes. “And all the Weasleys expect me to end up with her and you to end up with him.”

“I know that I won’t last with Draco, but I’m still with him,” Hermione replies flatly. “I have been. For almost two years now.”

“We know that, but everyone still thinks that Ron is the one you’re meant to be with,” Harry says in a tone that implies even he thinks it will happen. Hermione scoffs but says nothing. She cannot keep the pure, raw emotion from her eyes as she looks at the ring between them.

He looks back down at the ring and shakes his head ruefully. “This,” he moves the ring a little closer to her. “This is what nobody wants but me. And you, I hope.”

Hermione sucks in a breath, tears starting to flood her eyes. “It’s a promise that we both know you won't get to keep, Harry.”

“That’s right,” Harry’s smile turns sad. “This is the life we don’t get to have.”

Then she does cry. Bitterly she thinks, _because Ginny loves you and Ron loves me then we don’t get to be with each other if we want to keep the only other family we have_.

“Please don’t, ‘Mi,” Harry can only manage a whisper. He takes her hand and slips the ring through her finger, kissing first the tip, then knuckle, and finally, the skin near the ring. It is a soft gesture that speaks volumes. Hermione’s grip on his hand tightens as tears drip from jaw, fingers, to floor. Harry moves in to hold her with his other hand, wiping at her cheeks and kissing her forehead in apology.

Because for all the talk of free will and choice, Harry was still The-Boy-Who-Lived if only to die and live again, and Hermione Granger is just another muggle-born girl who lost her parents. They are not victims of fate, merely circumstance in the form of a large, red-headed family, the only family that they both have any more. Somehow, over the years, it has become clear that pairs have been chosen, and Hermione was not chosen to pair with Harry. Sobs wind down to gasping breaths, then breathing slowly in and out the same shampoo Harry used in their sixth year. 

“I love Ron,” Hermione finally says. “Just not that way.” _Not like Draco and definitely not like I love you_.

“But you do love him, and that’s enough,” Harry looks into her eyes. He pulls her down on his lap, twisting her body so that her back is to his chest and his breath ghosts down her neck. His hands wind down to her smaller ones, fingers twisting together. “My love with Ginny, your love for Ron, it’s enough.”

“Don’t you think we deserve more than just _enough,_ Harry?” Hermione asks. She’s not trying to antagonise him, simply questioning their near but still separate futures.

“We’ve lost so much already,” Harry sighs. _Could you stand to lose the Weasleys too?_ he almost asks. Instead he kisses her shoulder and leans into the crevice of her neck. “Maybe there are some things we must be selfless about, if we want to keep other things.”

Hermione doesn’t reply, merely stares at her ring finger for a long moment before removing the piece and transfiguring it into a small, teardrop pearl on silver. She conjures a chain and slips the pendant in. Without being asked, Harry clips the necklace with shaking fingers and closes his eyes when he finishes. He feels the weight of her leave his body, hears her shuffle out the door, and the quiet click of her old bedroom door being shut. By the next morning, they are back to normal and no one bothers to be curious about the silver chain peaking out from her shirts. No one notices the heaviness in the shared looks and small touches. It is like a secret that burns her skin.

_The life we don’t get to have._

.

.

Ginny is magnificent, a picture in white silks and tulle topped off with the brightest smile for miles around. She is just finishing the last touches on her make up and Hermione cannot help but feel just a little sad as she watches the redhead prepare for the happiest moment of her life.

 _This could have been me_ , she thinks to herself. _This_ should _have been me_. And Hermione’s smile breaks for the first time that day because could haves and should haves will change nothing. She is a bridesmaid and her best girl friend is getting married to boy she lost her virginity to. Hermione wonders if this is bad karma of a sort, or really terrible television playing a prank on her. She pinches herself just to make sure that this life is real.

“Are you okay, 'Mione?” Ginny’s voice breaks her from her daze, bright eyes curious and worried from the mirror. Hermione sighs a little and manages to smile back, walking to the girl and hugging her from behind. Merlin, Ginny is just too beautiful to hate.

“I just can’t believe my two best friends are getting married,” Hermione tells her. It’s the truth, after all.

“It will only be a year or so before it’s your turn!” Ginny’s laugh is musical, feminine, reassuring. Despite herself, Hermione’s smile turns genuine if a little small. She wants Ginny to be happy. She wants Ginny to stay ever so unaware of her feelings for the other girl’s future husband.

“I’ll never be as beautiful a bride as you, Gin,” Hermione manages to say. And she is being honest. Happiness makes people beautiful and she knows that she will never be as happy as Ginny. She excuses herself, picking up her flowers when she hears her name being called by Neville.

“Hermione.” She spins back slowly to find that Ginny is properly turned away from the mirror and looking at her. “I love him,” Ginny intones fiercely, gripping her own bouquet. “I love him, Hermione.” 

“Yes,” Hermione concedes, concealing her shock at being caught in love with the worst possible person. She gives nothing away, though she knows that there is a question in Ginny’s statement. Neville’s voice is coming closer so she dips her head to the side and smiles at the other girl. “I know.”

 _We both do_.

.

.

Harry is a complete mess standing by the altar. Since none of the bridesmaids and groomsmen have entered, he stands alone beside Kingsley Shacklebolt. All the seated guests stare at him, some giving his messy hair reproachful looks. Then Luna enters with Ron, both smiling good-naturedly at their awkward pairing as maid of honour and best man.

There is a second flash of green fabric and Hermione appears, holding Neville’s arm and a bouquet of soft pink. She’s so stunning that his breath catches, simple floor length dress a forrest green and perfect against her skin. Though her hair is pinned, she has left it untamed and curly. But as always, he loves her eyes the most. Beautiful and looking into him with such sufferance that it pierces his heart.

He completely misses the entrance of Fleur and Draco, still looking at his beautiful best friend. He almost forgets Ginny. He almost forgets that he is standing in front of at least one hundred friends and family. Almost. But Harry turns to Kingsley once Ginny is safely given away by Arthur and is standing right in front of him. Harry nods and Kingsley begins his speech. Then finally

 _with these hands, I will build our future_  
_with my head, I will stay true to my duties_  
_my heart, I give with all my faith  
_ _and throughout this life of mine, I shall shield you from any harm._

Harry James Potter and Ginevra Molly Weasley marry on September 21st of the year 2000, when the Autumn winds rain down a shower of yellows, reds, and oranges. It is five in the afternoon and Hermione can smell the crisp of a coming winter in the air. The leaves will soon wither and die, but her love will not.

No one else notices Harry’s eyes lock on to hers before he kisses his new wife, no one else notices her cry.

.

.

Her feet are killing her when she finally manages to get away from the dance floor. Hermione almost makes her way to the nearest bar, but catches sight of her Ministry co-workers and instead makes a beeline towards a more secluded bar setup. Draco gives her a scathing look as he is pulled away by a group of elderly ladies.

Fairy lights illuminate the slightly hidden area, giving the impression that this section of the reception is the wedding’s little secret. For her part, Hermione is absolutely glad that it will be harder for anyone to find her and drag her back to dance. She catches sight of Dean Thomas nursing a whiskey glass.

Hermione asks for a finger of Firewhiskey before turning to Dean, the biggest smile of the day on her face. “What are you doing hiding away here?” She sidles up to him and bumps her shoulder with his. “I haven’t seen you dancing at all."

“Look around, Hermione,” Dean laughs, then motions towards the other patrons near the bar. “This is where the broken hearts go.”

Romilda Vane. Michael Corner. Cho Chang. The recently single Neville. All looking out at the newly wed couple, dancing in an embrace that says they cannot even see outside there bubble. That thought is proven wrong when Harry looks up at Hermione, green eyes darting straight to hers, like he’d always known she was there, like he can't help but know. She almost doesn’t notice the glass being pressed to her hands.

“Cheers, everyone,” Hermione calls out, clinks her whiskey against Dean’s, and swallows it all down before she blinks and finally turns away from Harry’s gaze. She stays by the bar all night and has to be Apparated side-along when Draco comes to get her.

.

.

Ron’s head is on their dining room table, his shoulders slumped as he waits for Draco to finish making dinner and for Hermione to return from work. He has been going over the same conversation with the other man for the past thirty minutes and he knows that Hermione’s boyfriend doesn’t like him enough to keep going, so he falls silent instead.

“Draco? I’m back,” Hermione calls out as she steps into the living room, brushing away soot from her shoulders.

“Kitchen,” Draco replies, throwing raw chicken meat into a pan and looking at his house elf for further instruction.

“You won’t believe the day I’ve—” Hermione stops as she catches sight of the mop of red hair. “Ron? What are you doing here? Have you been here long?”

“About a half hour,” Ron mumbles, going for nonchalant but definitely sounding strained. He sighs and finally lifts his head to look up at her worried face. She sits and puts a hand on his shoulder without even knowing what’s bothering him, waiting quietly for him to explain. Ron sighs again. “I don’t think I want to be an Auror anymore.”

Surprise flits across Hermione’s face as she absorbs his words, then bewilderment. “But you love your job, you’ve wanted to be an Auror since we were at Hogwarts.”

“It’s…not what I imagined it to be,” Ron rubs the back of his neck. Hermione makes an impatient noise.

“Well, Ronald, you couldn’t have expected the bad guys just to hand themselves off.”

“Nah, it’s not that, ‘Mione.” He shakes his head, sighs again and puts his head back on the table. As Draco flicks place settings on to the table and walks to his seat, Ron says, “Draco can explain, he knows the whole argument.”

“In a dragon shell, he wants to have a more fulfilling occupation than taking down criminals.”

“But isn’t that fulfilling?” Hermione’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. Ron rolls his head over to face her and she realises what he hasn’t been saying. They spent a year running for their lives, away from Death Eaters, and now he is running after the villains and he needs _more_ out of life. He grew tired of it then, he must be tired of it now. She gives him a beseeching smile and says, “you can leave, Ron. We fought for a world where you can choose what to do with your life without—without hurting anyone.”

A stray tear drips on to the wood surface. Ron didn’t come for advice, he came for absolution for his sins nearly three years past. She runs a hand over his hair, mothering, completely ignoring his whispered, _I’m so sorry_. When he sits himself up properly, conversation goes back and forth between Draco and Hermione as they speak of their day.

Hermione wraps her arms around Ron for a quick hug as they exchange farewells and a whispered  _stop being so hard on yourself_. Ron kisses her cheek and steps out of her embrace. Ron smiles at Draco, then back at her, with a look that tells Hermione that he is letting her go.

Harry finds out just as Ron drops off his letter of resignation. Ron becomes the second half of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes within the month, and there is a special kind of magic to making people laugh.

.

.

**2001**

Hermione and Draco have been together for three years when he is told that there are plans for a Pureblood marriage. She marks their anniversary with a slap on his cheek, which he gracefully accepts before launching himself into her arms. Draco’s heart is beating faster than hers and she realises that he must be afraid.

“It should have been you and I,” she whispers softly in his ear. _I could have loved you with my everything in twenty years or so, when love potions stop smelling like Harry Potter,_ the voice in her head whispers softly back. Instead she clutches him harder, the last time she’ll be able to do so.

“I know,” Draco answers. His tone says, _but we never even had a chance._

They don’t say much else, she doesn’t even cry. He fucks her gently, almost like making love, as if he’s trying to sear the feel of her into his skin. She thinks that she loves Draco Malfoy the most in that moment. But then, like all the other times, the moment ends.

.

.

Hermione slips out of the sheets, bathes, and dresses quietly, so that she doesn’t disturb the sleeping body on the bed. Buttered scone in one hand, she shuts the bedroom door before using the Floo to get to Hogwarts.

It’s almost cliché that she is sitting by the Black Lake, remembering the terrifying ride on Buckbeak seven years before. When body met body and everything seemed to begin for her. Now she is twenty-one and still, the world feels like Harry Potter is the centre of her axis. The ring on her neck burns her skin, a reminder that she may never love someone as much as him.

Hermione unclips the chain and transfigures the teardrop pearl back to it’s original, Goblin-made ring. She stares at the small diamond perched on silver, wondering if there’s a love in between her simple one with Draco’s and the horrible, consuming one that she has for Harry. And she promptly bursts into tears and throws the ring into the lake. Hermione stays until the sun rises fully, hands clutching her hair, staring out into the water. She cries until she’s sure that she could shrivel up. Then she retrieves the ring with a quick Accio, transfigures it back into a pendant, and clips the necklace up again.

Draco is making a late breakfast when she returns, sleepy-eyed and handsome as always. They eat and discuss Astoria Greengrass in soft, morning tones. He gives her a kiss goodbye, longer than most, then Apparates before her eyes. Hermione wants to laugh, she knows she couldn’t cry if she wanted to. She goes to work instead and comes back to the loft with his part of the shelves empty, wondering how they will explain the new situation to Teddy. She refuses to go on any dates for the next six months.

.

.

**2002**

She and Ron begin fighting once Harry tells her that he’s happy that she and Draco broke up. For obvious reasons, Hermione does not take Ron with her to Draco’s wedding. When Draco catches sight of her from the altar, his eyes go warm and he manages a small wave. Astoria is beautiful and regal, she fits into the extravagant Pureblood marriage ceremony in a way that Hermione never could have. And everything is all right.

“She looked like she could really love you,” Hermione mentions, just as their dance begins. She puts on a thoughtful face before innocently saying, “I wonder if she’s smelled your farts.” Draco looks down at her, amused, his hand on her waist pinching lightly. She jumps slightly and proceeds to stomp on his foot as quietly as she can over the slow music. Draco laughs loudly at her effort.

“It’s only been nine months, but I think I’m already getting there,” he finally says. His tone is apologetic, but she can still hear his happiness at the edges. The kind of joy that she could not have secured for him the way a Pureblood witch could have.

 _Did you ever actually think we could get married?_ Hermione wants to ask. She opens her mouth to say something but shuts it again and decides to dance rather than possibly start a fight.

Draco chuckles, glancing down at her before kissing her forehead, softly. She remembers how well Draco knows her by now when he answers the question she hasn’t bothered to raise. “Anyone who looks at you and Potter starts to feel like their own universe is too small.”

He gives her one last slow spin as the song comes to an end. Quietly she admits, “sometimes I like to think that the only reason why we’re not together is because the world isn’t enough for a love like ours.”

_And don’t we deserve more than just enough?_

.

.

They sweep into each other effortlessly, unconsciously. It is magical, almost. But mostly it is devastating that two hands that were meant to be intertwined forever are attached to two people forced into different orbits.

“I’d hate to leave the wedding reception and go back home to Ginny,” Harry mumbles so quietly that the sound stays within their embrace. They miss a spin because he refuses to let her go ,

“I realise that I’ve never actually told you that I love you,” Hermione mentions, somewhat out of the blue. Harry’s mouth quirks up. In the next spin he lets go and is ready to cushion her body as she comes back. They dance and it feels as if two halves are whole, if even just for a moment.

“You never had to say it, I knew,” Harry tells her. “I will always know.”

“You know me better than I know myself,” Hermione whispers. She is almost sad about that fact, the flicker of pain caught by Harry. He sighs, tucking a lock of hair back. Anything he needs and wants to say goes into that sigh. Once she’s collected herself, Hermione looks up and says, “sometimes I think I know you better than yourself, and sometimes I think I’ve already lost you. Do you ever feel that way, Harry?”

“Do you remember my vows?” Harry asks in an answer. Hermione nods. Softly he tells her 

 _with these hands, I pray for a future with you_  
_with my head, I dream that you are mine_  
_my heart, I have lost to you  
_ _and throughout this life of mine, I shall love you more than anyone_

And then they have stepped apart. Harry waits for her reply, eyes almost begging. Instead, she almost bumps into the floating wedding cake in her haste to flee. Because every boy she ever loves ends up married, and not to her. Hermione goes to sleep with Harry’s quiet vows playing in her head and the memory of her first kiss by the common room fire.

.

.

Ron asks her out just a few months shy of Harry and Ginny’s second year anniversary. She almost cries at the life she can never run away from. She agrees instead and he takes her to a strip of Muggle stores with an old bookshop at the end of the street. They spend hours there and Hermione is guiltily surprised that Ronald Weasley actually likes books, albeit crime and suspense novels. She steps out with three wrapped books that he graciously offers to carry, the Muggle way.

“I’m glad you and Draco are finally over,” Ron comments over his tiny coffee cup. “He wasn’t a bad cook though.” Hermione snorts a laugh, both appalled and amused by his lack to tact. She thinks, _still the same in so many ways_.

“I liked him, too,” she shrugs, and gives him a wry smile. “But fate always puts you on the road you’re supposed to be walking, it seems.”

Blood pounds in her ears when she finally admits to herself that Harry Potter will never be her end game. Ron takes her sudden quietness and the brightness in her eye as her mourning over Draco. He holds out his hand over the table, surprising her again. Ron says nothing, just gives her hand a quick squeeze and does not let go as she breathes in and out. Within minutes Hermione has bottled her wishes up and looks at Ron objectively. _I’ve always loved him,_ she decides _. Maybe one day I will love him more than Harry._

They go on more dates.

.

.

**2003**

Hermione visits Ron during her lunch break, walking into the store at what seems to be peak hour.

“Woah! It’s even bigger than before!” Teddy cries loudly, tugging his hand out of hers and running up to a new shelf. Hermione calls out to him, but he is eventually lost to the swarm of children. With a huff, she settles to picking her way through little trinkets, taking note of what’s new.

“Would you look at that beautiful brunette standing by the novelties, George,” a voice booms from above her. Older eyes, mostly male, shift their sight to the Novelty Goods sign, then to Hermione standing shellshocked and blushing beneath it.

“Prettiest girl I’ve seen all day,” George whistles in reply. Hermione is ready to burst in flames once she starts hearing the whispers, _that’s Hermione Granger, yes, the war hero_.

“None of that, none of that, Georgie,” Ron makes an exaggerated show of elbowing George in the stomach. Hermione waits for the next line in their impromptu spiel. “She’s also brilliant with her wand and was the first in our class to learn the non-verbal Avis charm.”

 _And there it is_ , Hermione rolls her eyes but can’t keep her lips from tugging up at the memory. The crowd starts to turn away as the two redheads disappear further into the second floor. Hermione returns to playing with old Muggle toys and almost doesn’t catch Teddy’s, “that was Aunt ‘Mione you were talkin’ about, Uncle Ron.”

“Sure was, buddy, and I wasn’t joking about a thing,” Ron chuckles. She thinks she hears him say, _especially about those bloody yellow birds_. Then he’s looming beside Hermione, an impish grin on his face. “Is there anything I can help the smart, pretty miss with?”

“Well the owner here is a right prat, so I was wondering if you could deal with him,” Hermione answers. It only causes Ron to laugh even more, pulling her into his arms. “If I give you a kiss, will that make it better?”

“Definitely not,” she mumbles, but she’s already tiptoeing. They don’t hear Teddy’s loud _yuck!_ and George’s, _don’t worry, little man, you won’t be thinking it’s so yucky in about ten years or so_.

.

.

 **2004**  

They are engaged after a year. For someone like Ron, Hermione is pleasantly surprised that he actually planned the proposal. It’s nothing special, but she likes it that way. She recalls the extravagant fireworks display before Harry’s proposal to Ginny; she can’t help but remember how uncomfortable it made Harry.

“Yes,” Hermione answers breathlessly. She feels far away in that moment, staring down at Ron from her seat, fork clinging on to her tart precariously. A smile breaks through Ron’s face and there is clapping and congratulations in the distance.

Then there is Harry; solemn, knowing. Of course Ron had already told him, they had probably gone through the entire meal plan and set up the family dinner. And yet, there is a sliver of miserable shock in his face, as if he had hoped she would say no.

“I was worried you would reject me for a second,” Ron mumbles into her ear, pulling his new fiancé into a tight grip. Hermione is amazed to see that the ring is already on her finger, so caught up in the shattered look on Harry’s face. Slowly, everything comes in to focus and she realises that everyone is looking at her.

“I love you,” Hermione replies, a little too loud, making sure that it reaches Harry from across the table. She watches as his eyes go hard, jaw clenching before an almost crazed smile pulls at his lips. Flutes of champagne float to the table and Hermione grabs her own, still looking at Harry. He mouths, _I love you, too_.

They salute each other mockingly, like comrades at war, and she wants to call out, _this is the life we don’t get to have, remember?_

.

.

Wedding planning overwhelms her. Hermione isn’t sure she’s cried so much in a day in her entire life. She’s become so good at running away, something that must have come from living as a criminal in her 7th year. She’s not very good at running far, just to Harry’s and Ginny’s. Only when Ginny is ever away.

“Why don’t you just tell him you want a simple wedding?” Harry asks for the nth time. Not frustrated, just suggesting. He’s as calm as a quiet, envious storm approaching.

“How can I? It’s all his mother’s ever wanted,” Hermione sighs. “And I owe it to him.” _Just like you owed it to Ginny_ , he hears in her words. At that, Harry has no other rebuttal.

“I just want you to be happy, Hermione,” Harry says, reaching out to place a hand over hers. At this she wants to hiss, _then you should have asked me to marry you instead_. From his floating booster chair, Teddy reaches out to place both hands over theirs.

“I want you to be happy, too, Auntie,” Teddy smiles before going back to his messy painting. Hermione’s eyes soften, running her hand over Teddy’s bushy brown hair.

“So handsome,” she whispers, more to herself. “So much like—” Hermione trails off, but glances up at Harry anyway. When he realises no one is speaking, Teddy’s green eyes look back up again. In a detached way, she thinks of a memory, once hers but now belonging only to Draco, floating in a small glass vial. She unconsciously touches the flat, cotton surface of her stomach without bothering to wonder why.

“What’s wrong, Aunt ‘Mione? Uncle Harry?” Teddy looks between the two. He reaches up to pat Hermione’s cheeks with a small frown. “No more crying, okay?”

“Yes, sweetheart, no more crying,” Hermione tells the little boy. Harry’s hand doesn’t leave hers until the Floo rings the arrival of someone new. They step away from each other swiftly, mastering neutral faces and looking away from the boy with green eyes and messy, brown curls. They learned to put away their feelings long before their 7th year.

.

.

**2005**

They are at a Muggle pub for Ron’s bachelor party, a group of twentysomethings leaving the market, one girl at a time. As the singles and the takens dually head to the bar for more drinks, Harry grins at Ron from across the table. 

“Nervous?” Harry asks. Ron hasn’t been drinking too much, one pint in comparison to everyone’s four. Harry was the same the night before his own wedding. Ron shrugs in answer, takes another sip of his lager.

“I can’t believe I’m actually marrying her, after all this time,” Ron chuckles a little, eyes alight with a childlike glee of getting a new toy. He has loved Hermione Granger since they were seventeen and it feels as if he is the last man standing, for once.

“You love her a lot, don’t you?” Harry looks at Ron as if he needs his own reassurances. At that, the delight flickers out and Ron’s face becomes guarded, defensive. Harry watches the transformation, allowing himself some jealous satisfaction.

“I’d die for her,” Ron answers seriously, a hard glint in his eye. He raises one brow, the _what about you?_ unvoiced. Finally, their unspoken strain seeps into the surface. Harry finishes his pint, letting his best friend’s challenge clog the air between them.

“I’m going to get another drink,” Harry stands.

“Mate,” Ron demands an answer and Harry winces at the too hard grip on his arm. Harry lays a hand on Ron’s shoulder, just as strong, and looks Ron straight in the eye.

“I’d kill for her.” Harry husks. _I already have_. He makes his way to a bar to get himself a stronger drink.

.

.

Mrs. Weasley is a little offended when she hears that Hannah Abbott is Hermione’s maid of honour, but says nothing about it when Ginny defends that Hermione hadn’t been her maid of honour either. Of course, it is mostly because the pairings have ended up as unusual as they could possibly be.

Hannah and Harry walk in first, not as close friends as Draco and Hannah had been, but not awkward as they walk down the aisle. Followed by Dean and Ginny, who burst into childish giggles whenever they look at each other and remember their past relationship. Last is Seamus, putting on a good face as he walks with the ever so whimsical Luna. And Harry’s mouth dries as Hermione steps through, her arm linked with Arthur Weasley’s.

She doesn’t look at Harry the entire ceremony, until Ron’s focus goes to putting the ring on her finger and her eyes flicker to him for a second too long. She swallows before looking back at Ron and starting her vows

 _I will cherish every moment I have with you_  
_I will protect you to the best of my abilities_  
_I will…_  
_I will…  
_ _I will…_

and it is finally over. Hermione Jean Granger keeps her name and Harry can’t help but think that HGP would still be better initials.

.

.

Ginny waves a hand over Harry’s face, simmering. Harry comes to with a twitch, almost spilling his champagne over his robes. He laughs and gives her a guilty smile, “sorry, I was somewhere else for a second.”

“How long will it take, Harry?” Ginny takes a calming sip of her drink. “How long will it take until you come home to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t need you to be a hero, you know. I still don’t.” Ginny looks him straight in the eye. Her hand plays with her wedding ring, like she is fighting to decide what to do. “I understood, I will always understand. The world needed you and you needed to go. But when you left, you never came back to me. Not truly. 

Dread fills him, a heavy drop on his stomach. _Five years_ , he thinks to himself, _and I’ve done nothing to deserve her_. The gold band slips through her knuckle and hangs dangerously out. He swallows and begs, “Ginny.”

“I don’t need you to be a hero, Harry,” she repeats. Her glance moves away from him, she takes a shaky breath. “I just need you to be here."

“I can do that.”

Her hand stills. She lets him push the ring back in place.

.

.

Hermione is blissful in Ron’s arms, allowing herself to be truly happy with the man she promised herself to. And yet her mind rages from two different sides, the practical and the romantic. Except for the one shared look, she has not dared to look at Harry in fear that all her repressed feelings will pour out and her vows, both magical and Muggle, will be broken. Ron is grinning down at her goofily and she can’t help but smile back, his joy contagious. She could live with this, she could make this man happy, she could be happy with this man. 

“May I cut in?” Harry’s quiet voice hits her like the waves from a summer morning years ago. Ron’s consent is lost as she steps into Harry’s arms as if under compulsion. Her body finally betrays her practical mind, it will always know what niche she truly fits into.

They dance slowly, too much to say between them spoken instead in the soothing movement of his thumb. It leaves a trail of sparks on her shoulder, up and down, up and down. Hermione sighs, stepping away from the blissful romance of her wedding and falling into the contentment of Harry’s warmth. She hums into his dress robes, a Muggle song they chose together on a quiet, Sunday afternoon.

Just as the dance is ending, Hermione looks into Harry’s eyes. She speaks so quietly, so that only he will hear, and he’s almost not sure if her words are meant for him or for herself

 _Always together, even if we’re apart.  
_ _I will keep our forever safe in my heart._

“You are going to have a wonderful life with Ron, I just know it.” It sounds a lot like _goodbye_. The pendant flashes on her neck just as Harry lets go of her hand and turns away without a backward glance.

.

.

“Hermione?” Ron’s voice rings up from the living room. She pops her head out from the bannister and calls down a preoccupied, _what is it?_ Ron coughs and says, “I think you should come down for this.”

“Honestly, Ronald, I’m already cleaning up this house, all I asked for you to do was sort through the mail.” Hermione huffs as she walks in. Ron isn’t looking at her, instead his hands grip on their Pensieve so hard that his knuckles are white. Her train of thought is lost as she catches sight of an empty glass vial on the carpet. Immediately her hand starts to lift up to her—but she freezes, confused. “Who would send that?”

“Malfoy. His idea of a wedding gift.” Ron answers gruffly. Then he stomps out of the room and up the stairs. Hermione hears their bedroom door slam shut and flinches.

_Hermione,_

_You asked me to Obliviate this memory from you, many years ago. I think it's time I returned it to you. Cheers to a universe too small._

_Draco_

.

.

The last few days of their honeymoon are spent tiptoeing around each other, making small talk, holding hands to make up for their distance. Bitterly, she thinks, _brightest witch of my age and I can’t seem to get anything right_. Out loud, she says, “what happens now?”

Ron shifts to face her, thoughtful and a little sad. She counts his freckles, feeling as if she has let them both down before their marriage has even started. He sighs, then moves to trace her shoulder with tentative fingers. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to love me.”

“I do!” Hermione insists.

“No, I know. It’s just—” Ron sighs again, then finally pulls her close. “Viktor? Malfoy? And _damn_ , I was so bloody jealous of you and Harry, you knew that, we all knew it.” Quietly, he laughs, “best kept secret in Hogwarts.”

“Ron, I’m sorry,” her vision blurs with wetness. They slip sideways, running down to the sheets. “I’m so, so sorry.” _But I can’t help the way I feel. I never could_. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he finally says. “I just wish I knew why.”

“The world wasn’t enough for a love like ours.” Hermione answers him. “You and I were a non sequitur.”

Then she tucks her head under his chin and doesn’t speak again. Even she is unsure if what she said was an insult.

.

.

Ron never forgives Draco, old rivalries die hard. But Hermione writes a secret thank you note, and informs him that she’ll still be dropping by for lunch next week.

.

.

James Sirius Potter is a tiny crying bundle and quite possibly the most glorious thing that Harry has ever seen. He spells away the blood and kisses Ginny’s temple in awe of their creation. Hermione feels terribly out of place and follows Ron’s lead when he makes an excuse to leave. She does not belong in this room.

Hermione’s fingers brush over his arm in goodbye and Harry can’t help but watch as she makes her way out of the room. It has been the craziest year, and yet, all it takes is a glance and everything goes still around him. Hermione slows her exit and he feels like he’s in one of those black and white films they sneak out to watch every Friday on their lunch break.

“Harry?” Ginny breaks his daydream and Harry’s eyes flick down to her. Her arms are reaching out, her face tired but still so lovely. “I think James needs to be fed.”

He shifts James in his arms and passes the fussing infant to his wife, a feeling of satisfaction growing in the pit of his belly. Hermione takes one last glance from the doorway, but Harry hasn’t looked up at all.

This may be, she considers, when it finally ends.

.

.

Ron has her bent over, index finger tapping at her clit in sync with his rhythmic in and out. Hermione grips the counter tighter as she feels herself getting closer and closer.

 _If his plan is fucking me so hard I’ll forget about Harry, it’s working_ , Hermione thinks to herself, a smile working its way to her face. Then her eyes widen and the grin drops off as she realises what she’s been thinking.

She falls over the edge with tears in her eyes and a promise never to make a joke about her marriage again.

.

.

The thing is, his life isn’t too bad. Despite the sleepless nights and the exhaustion pinching at his wife’s beautiful face, Harry can feel a calm sort of contentment. He tucks Ginny in closer, kissing her forehead as she mumbles, “finally, he’s finally asleep.”

“Bloody brilliant, you are,” Harry runs his hand over her back, fondness seeping into his tone. “I love you, so much, you know.”

“Tell me again what a wonder I am,” Ginny hums sleepily into his chest. She feels the rumble of Harry’s laugh against her skin, rubbing her cheek on his nightshirt.

“You are the wonder of wonders, my wonderful wife,” Harry sings out, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

“Mmm, you’re only saying that because we’ll be getting five hours of sleep tonight,” she yawns and her eyes close.

Harry chuckles tiredly, then pulls her in even closer. He adores her the most in that moment, smelling of baby powder and clean clothes. Lately it has felt like he hasn’t been able to do anything fast enough. But in the slow hours of the day, when it seems like even the air is standing still and the sun stays on its permanent sunset waiting for him to catch up, Harry thinks of the life he has. It feels a lot like a happy ending.

.

.

**2006**

“I just need to know one thing,” Ron breaks the silence. Hermione looks up from her paperwork, but his eyes are pointedly on the prototype in his hands. “Was it Malfoy’s?”

She sucks in a breath, puts down her quill. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Ron decides after a moment. His eyes finally lift up to meet hers head on. “So was it? Malfoy’s?”

Hermione shakes her head softly at first, then harder. She looks down at her parchment, fingers toying with the skin of her stomach. Ron swipes a thumb slowly over her cheek, wiping away tears she didn’t realise she had.

“It’s okay, love,” he tells her. In one breath, she launches herself at him and howl’s into his neck. He sighs, settles them into the living room couch and holds her as she cries. “Everything will be okay.”

.

.

It remains a secret between her, Draco, and now, Ron. She never tells Harry. The people that already know, she feels, are the only ones that ever need to know.

.

.

Some nights are comfy, legs thrown over his and a book in her hands. Some nights he runs through new products with her, practicing his charm work. Others are muted. If someone had told her that Ronald Weasley could be reflective five years ago, she would have laughed. Now she is lulled by his quiet rumination.

“When we were on the run,” Hermione starts. Ron moves his head in her direction, but his gaze remains on his work. “What did you imagine life would be like afterwards?”

He gives a thoughtful noise, finishing the last of his inventory. “I suppose I would have still wanted to be here. Have a sprog or two. Cook dinner with you on the weekends.”

“You’re a terrible cook,” she points out.

“So are you,” Ron replies, distractedly. He misses the cushion she throws at him and hears her snort as it knocks into his face. “Why do you ask?”

“This wasn’t what I imagined,” Hermione admits. Ron throws the cushion back at her, and they’re both surprised that she catches it. She looks at him, a peaceful warmth overwhelming her. “I suppose I would have still wanted to be here, too.”

.

.

Hermione can’t help the smile on her face, spooning porridge goofily into her mouth. From across the table, Ron quirks a brow but keeps drinking his morning tea. He gets through half of his meal before he lets himself be thoroughly ruffled by his wife’s grinning face.

“What is it? Did someone hit you with a Cheering Charm?” Ron finally asks, looking at Hermione with suspicion. The smile grows impossibly bigger and now Ron gets worried. “What’s going on, ‘Mione?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

He laughs, grabs and spins her, puts her down and runs out of the house to shout it to the neighbourhood. She is in a daze and it feels absolutely right. When Ron comes back, he is beaming. She allows him to pull her up the stairs and to their bedroom, giggling when his hands move under her jumper as he remarks, “well, I want to be certain it sticks.”

.

.

**2007**

Harry gets promoted, Hermione is technically his boss. They keep going to the movies every Friday.

.

.

The joke shop becomes so popular that Ron and George have to add another floor.

.

.

Ginny becomes the senior Quidditch correspondent for the Daily Prophet, citing that, _it's much easier to criticise other players when you're retired_.

.

.

**2008**

There is a shipment of Amortentia sitting in the living room. She’s afraid of it, afraid to open a bottle and remember.

“Are you a Gryffindor or what?” Hermione says into the air. Ron looks up from his seat, surprised at her outburst.

“Yes?” He replies, confused. She waves him away with an exasperated noise and he returns to his sister's piece on the Daily Prophet, rolling his eyes.

Finally, she stomps over and opens the box, grabbing a bottle and pulling out the stopper with a bizarre ferocity. Ron glances between the paper and his wife, amused. She returns to her tea with a satisfied look on her face and doesn’t say another word.

.

.

Ginny rocks Lily to sleep, a knackered, satisfied glow on her face. From his perch on the ottoman, Harry is content to listen to her sing his newborn to sleep. It is quiet, for once. Teddy, James, and Albus in bed, the Sunday slowly coming to an end.

“Falling in love with her felt a lot like drowning in slow motion,” Harry finally says. He remembers Hermione’s patience at the beach once upon a time. “I knew—I could see it happening, and yet.”

_It felt as if the water would never go still._

“I fancied myself in love with you, for a while,” Ginny tells him after a long silence. Lily yawns in her arms. “It overwhelmed me, suffocated me even.” She looks at him then, glancing from the tuft of their daughter’s hair to the mop of her husband’s. “It wasn’t the way I wanted to be loved.”

“She tried teaching me to swim,” Harry replies, almost as an afterthought. “I was terrible, never could catch on.”

Ginny hums, noncommittally. They are in bed when his whispered admonition slips over her shoulder. He curls around her as his words flow into the dark.

“I think I only learned to breathe once I washed into you.”

.

.

**2009**

"In another universe, I think we're happy," Hermione mentions from her position on the carpet. Her night thoughts are getting to her, wine and the late hour bringing out her deepest musings. She drains her glass in one breath.

"Your closet lush is coming out." Harry tickles her ear with his quill. Hermione giggles, then laughs. Under Harry's watchful gaze, she shakes with silent laughter.

"Sorry," she finally manages. "Don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing, you're perfect." His thumb strokes at her jaw and Hermione realises that tears are dripping down her face. He watches her weep with an unsettled look on his face. When she finally stops, she fills another glass for herself and wears her tears like war paint.

"Still think nothing's wrong with me?" Hermione mumbles, staring out at the fire.

Harry's hand knocks against hers as he settles down beside her on the floor. His warmth crashes into her, threatens to overflow. He gives Hermione a long side-glance before nodding. "Yup, still perfect."

.

.

Hermione buys him a new brand of shampoo.

.

.

**2010**

“We were each other’s first love.” Harry remarks over the rim of his crystal. A smile plays at his lips, tired acquiescence in his green eyes.

“But not each other’s last.” She finishes for him, fingers tapping rhythmically on the counter, inching closer. She lifts her drink in quiet homage and with a wry smile, says, “to the life we don’t get to have.”

“Maybe it’s enough.” He laughs softly, like he has finally understood an important Potions lesson. _Finally enough_.

“Maybe—” Hermione stops, swallows. “Maybe the reason it felt like life was filled with so many tragedies—” She reaches out for Harry, unable to resist any longer. “—is because we kept forcing our hands to stay apart.”

Ron and Ginny walk in, strides unbroken by the sight before them. Empty stools screech and are filled, eyebrows quirk up at the silence. A relieved chuckle bursts out, a new bottle of Firewhiskey is opened, and the night tastes like a new beginning.

.

.

**2017**

“I’m too old for this,” Hermione groans with a huff. She stumbles over a hidden root and is caught by Harry’s quick reflexes. He laughs, then slips his hands in hers.

“Come on you lot,” Ron calls at them. He gives an impatient sigh when he looks back and finds them struggling to catch up. “This was your idea.”

“Seemed like a good one, too,” Harry pipes up, slightly out of breath but still cheerful.

“You must not have accounted for the twenty years of ageing,” Hermione points out. Ron snorts at that, stopping as he catches sight of the lake, unfrozen now but still the same. Then he makes a happy shout and starts moving faster, disappearing from view.

“Hermione,” he tightens his hold and gives her a carefree grin. He pulls her into a jog. “Don’t let go of me.”

“I’m here, Harry.” Hermione tells him, the infectious smile tugging at her own lips. “I’m here.”

He hasn’t noticed until then, but the square diamond ring wraps around her finger beside her wedding band. It looks like it has been there fore a while, like it was always meant to be there. She gives him a quick squeeze and he is hit with a rush of—

 

our hands gather dust when they’re apart

forever safe in my heart

of—

 

 _home_.


End file.
